A single ray through the almost shut bedroom door streaks along the ceiling.
An awakening sleeper can not trace the beam back to its source,
which is the brightness behind that nearly closed door.
Nor can he follow it forward for it peters out
in the ambient dark somewhere along the ceiling.
Wide-eyed pupils perceive only a lack of clarity;
a smudginess of light and dark,
a singular ray, a promise of light that shines upon nothing,
a fading sliver bracketed between radiance and universal shadow,
a path of luminance meddling into a groggy man's world
and coming to no particular point.
If you've any comments on this poem, Richard Fein would be pleased to hear from you.